


Blaze of Glory

by merle_p



Category: Supernatural
Genre: About to Die (or so they thought), Desperation, Dirty Talk, Episode: s12e22 Who We Are, Exhibitionism, Hand Jobs, M/M, Missing Scene, POV Outsider, Sex in the Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Sibling Incest, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:28:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28837803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merle_p/pseuds/merle_p
Summary: “Is this how you pictured it?” she hears Sam asking quietly, his voice far too resigned for her taste. “The end?”“You know it’s not,” Dean responds, and he too sounds strangely calm, almost amused, as if there’s a secret joke they are sharing between them, one that she has no chance to ever understand.“I always thought,” Dean continues, wry amusement more obvious now in his voice, “we’d go out like … Butch and Sundance style.”Toni rolls her eyes, hard, even if there is no one around to see it. Oh God, she thinks contemptuously, Americans, always so bloody sentimental. Next, they will probably start singingSweet Home AlabamaorCountry Roads, or whatever unofficial hillbilly anthem Americans consider conducive to improving morale among the troops.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 18
Kudos: 185





	Blaze of Glory

She doesn’t even consider making a serious attempt to get out of the handcuffs.

If there is one thing Lady Antonia Bevell is good at, it’s calculating the odds and strategizing accordingly, and right now, it’s quite clear that her best (albeit slim) chance at survival is putting all her money on the two infuriatingly uncouth American hunters she’s been buried alive with in this concrete tomb with the 1930s office décor. All she can do is try to convince Sam and Dean Winchester to leave her alive for the time being and hope that one of them will come up with a working plan to get them out of here before the oxygen runs out.

The good news is that at least for now, they seem to have more or less given up on their intentions to shoot her in the face out of sheer spite.

The bad news is that they also seem to have given up on their efforts to actually escape this death trap any time soon.

Toni is keeping mostly out of sight, lurking in the doorway by the stairs leading down to the boiler room. She is not really hiding, that would be silly, they know she’s there – she just wants to keep a bit of an eye on things without coming across as too desperate. Yet the distinct lack of progress in the Winchesters’ efforts to break out makes it increasingly difficult to ignore the sense of existential dread that has been slowly expanding inside her ribcage for the past hour or so.

They are all going to die here, and Sam and Dean Winchester don’t really seem to care anymore.

Right now, they are sitting side by side on the floor of the boiler room, shoulders pressed together, backs propped up against the concrete wall they were trying to bring down, looking more like two construction workers on their lunch break than the men holding Toni’s fate in their broad, calloused hands.

“Is this how you pictured it?” she hears Sam asking quietly, his voice far too resigned for her taste. “The end?”

“You know it’s not,” Dean responds, and he too sounds strangely calm, almost amused, as if there’s a secret joke they are sharing between them, one that she has no chance to ever understand.

“I always thought,” Dean continues, wry amusement more obvious now in his voice, “we’d go out like … Butch and Sundance style.”

Toni rolls her eyes, hard, even if there is no one around to see it. Oh God, she thinks contemptuously, Americans, always so bloody sentimental. Next, they will probably start singing _Sweet Home Alabama_ or _Country Roads_ , or whatever unofficial hillbilly anthem Americans consider conducive to improving morale among the troops.

To their credit, they don’t actually sing. Instead, Dean’s words are followed by a drawn-out, heavy, ominous silence, and eventually she chances another glance around the corner, just to make sure they haven’t disappeared.

But no, they are still sitting in the same spot, staring into nothing, except that since she last checked, they appear to have moved on to holding hands.

Huh.

She blinks hard, shakes her head to clear it, lets her gaze wander back more slowly, and indeed, there it is: their linked hands, resting on Dean’s bent knee, fingers tightly intertwined. Sam seems to be running the pad of his thumb up and down the V between Dean’s index finger and his thumb, and Toni watches in horrified fascination how their heads incrementally tilt towards each other, until eventually Sam’s temple is pressed firmly against Dean’s.

Her British soul recoils at the blatant display of emotionality. She is about to retreat to her seat on the other side of the wall, considers a bit of meditation if only so she won’t have to die with this scene from a lumberjack Hallmark movie playing on repeat in her mind, when Dean says “Sam –,” all the humor suddenly gone from his voice, and for a moment Toni forgets to breathe.

Because Sam and Dean are kissing. And no, those are not tender forehead kisses that one might interpret as a sign of familial affection, not even Hallmark movie kisses, no – this is what in England they call _a proper snog_ : open-mouthed, tongue-heavy, _wet_ , and unless she has somehow gravely misunderstood crucial aspects of American culture, this is not the kind of kissing anyone in their right mind would consider brotherly.

Her first thought is that they must be delirious, their brains addled by the lack of oxygen. Or maybe _she_ is the one who is hallucinating, losing her grip on reality as she is slowly slipping into unconsciousness. But immediately she discards that thought: the air is getting thinner, yes, but she feels _fine_ , not even truly light-headed or short of breath. She has felt worse after a day-long hike in the hills of Wales. So she makes herself look again, more carefully this time, watches Dean bury his fingers deep in Sam’s hair, watches Sam’s wide palm cradle the back of Dean’s neck, sees even from across the room the way Sam licks into Dean’s mouth, the way Dean nips at Sam’s bottom lip, hears the faint growl he elicits in return. Their kisses are hungry, their movements sloppy with frantic urgency, and yet it’s all so very effortless, practiced, a dance that speaks of years-long familiarity.

This is not something brought on by oxygen deprivation or even just desperation in the face of near-certain death. In fact, there is no doubt in her mind anymore that they have done this many, many times before.

By now they have shifted position, are facing each other on their knees, and Sam has opened his legs just wide enough for Dean to slide one knee between his brother’s thighs, their legs fitting together like the teeth of a zipper, seamlessly. Dean still has his hand tangled in Sam’s hair, and now he tugs, pulls his head back, and Sam follows easily, exposes his throat, allows Dean to rake his teeth all the way down the long curve of Sam’s neck. The pale blue v-neck shirt Sam is wearing reveals just a hint of his collarbone, and when Dean reaches the vulnerable dip low on Sam’s throat, he bites down with the ferocity of a vampire trying to draw blood, and Sam hisses and shudders and sways into Dean as if he can’t get enough of the pain.

Toni rubs her sweaty palms against her suit pants, can feel her fingers trembling just the tiniest bit. She thinks back to the basement of that farmhouse, remembers slipping into Sam Winchester’s sedated mind in an attempt to seduce him into offering the information he had refused to give up even when they had set his feet on fire. But the illusion of wine and satin sheets and afterglow cuddles hadn’t done the trick either, and no wonder he had seen right through her ruse, seeing as how she had crafted her deception around the – stupidly naïve – assumption that he’d be the romantic vanilla type. If only she had had any inkling of what a filthy pervert he really was, she might have had a better chance at getting him to spill his secrets. If she had known that what he wanted was his big brother sucking bruises into his skin, perhaps right now she wouldn’t be in this mess, abandoned by her own people, by Arthur fucking Ketch, left to die with two guys who look like they fell out of a Levi’s jeans ad right into Pornhub’s fake gay step-brother tag.

Except of course that there is nothing fake nor step about the Winchesters’ brotherly bond.

“Sam,” Dean says now, finally relinquishing his claim on Sam’s carotid artery, and _God_ , even his voice sounds like something out of a porn film, all husky and gravelly and rough.

“I want -,” he starts, stops, and Sam stares at him, wild-eyed, his mouth so red from his brother’s kisses that from Toni’s vantage point, his lips are actually looking bruised.

“Should we –“ Sam says, breathlessly, “maybe we shouldn’t …” He swallows, shakes his head, as if he is struggling to form a coherent thought. “Is this – are we wasting air?”

There is an edge to Dean’s voice when he laughs in response, but his hands are gentle, petting his brother’s hair as if Sam is a spooked horse that needs calming down.

“Seems like we are going to die either way,” he says ruefully. “And if I can’t go down fighting, then at least I can go out with your dick in my hand.”

Sam makes an odd sound at that, half crazed laughter, half desperate sob. “Such a romantic,” he says, his voice strangled, and Dean grins, widely, recklessly.

“You love it,” he says, matter-of-fact and confident, and Sam sighs and laughs, but he doesn’t disagree. And it looks like Dean knows what he is talking about, because Sam is reaching out now, starts to tug at the hem of Dean’s t-shirt, two of his fingers already impatiently feeling for skin even as the rest of them are still clenched in the fabric of the shirt. Dean releases his hold on Sam and lifts his arms, just long enough for Sam to slide the t-shirt up and over his head. The shirt lands on the floor, discarded without care, and already Sam’s hands are all over Dean, broad palms sliding down the powerful, tan expanse of Dean’s back while Dean dives in and claims Sam’s mouth in another kiss, his fingers cradling the strong line of Sam’s jaw.

If Arthur Ketch could see them now, Toni thinks, and feels hysterical laughter bubbling up in her chest at the idea. All that effort Arthur and his team put into wiring the bunker, all the time he spent compiling meticulously detailed files on the Winchester brothers, and yet somehow this bit of information they had managed to hide from his research team. Arthur would be furious, she thinks with a not inconsiderable amount of grim satisfaction, if he realized that he had all this excellent blackmail material right under his nose and yet somehow looked right over it.

Although, come to think of it, perhaps the information wouldn’t actually have been quite as valuable as one might expect. Because they certainly don’t seem to care that they are not alone right now. She is still half hidden behind the concrete wall, but if they only bothered to glance briefly in her direction, there is no way they wouldn’t see her crouching by the doorway, watching them. Surely they must remember that she is here, must know that she can hear them, _see_ them, and yet they are so focused on each other, so wrapped up in each other, as if the world outside their little bubble had already ceased to matter, ceased to exist.

She wets her lips with her tongue, or tries to, anyway – but her mouth is too dry, and it takes more of an effort to suck enough air into her lungs than it did even just thirty minutes ago. But if Sam and Dean are feeling the effects of the drop in oxygen as well, they certainly don’t seem to care about that either.

Dean has climbed into Sam’s lap, legs bent on either side of his brother’s thighs. His hands are roaming underneath Sam’s t-shirt, pushing the soft fabric up to Sam’s chest until the shirt bunches up underneath his arm pits, revealing rippling abs and skin glistening with sweat.

“Remember the first time we did this, Sammy?” he asks, roughly, and Sam’s answering laughter sounds like it’s being ripped out of him.

“Of course I do,” he pants, voice tinged with disbelief, and yes, okay, Toni suspects that making out with your brother for the first time is probably one of those things you don’t easily forget.

“Yeah,” Dean says, satisfied, as if he didn’t really expect anything else. He is moving his hips now, grinding up against Sam in a way that seems almost absent-minded, lazy, but clearly serves a purpose if Sam’s heaving chest and stuttering breath are anything to go by.

“Just before you left for California,” he continues, slides one hand down between them, “right after your eighteenth birthday, you remember that, right?”

Toni’s breath catches, and she feels something in her abdomen tightening strangely in response to Dean’s words. Because, well, that means they have been at this for close to twenty years, and Toni hasn’t had a relationship last even half that long – yet here they are, pawing at each other, biting and licking as if the feeling of each other’s skin underneath their hands, against their lips, is the only thing that’s still keeping them alive.

“I remember,” Sam nods, his voice low, and he leans back just the tiniest bit, shoulder pressed into the wall, to give Dean easier access to the top button on his jeans.

“You were still such a baby, Christ,” Dean says, and his voice is thick, vibrating with something unspoken that Toni hears clearly but doesn’t really understand, like words in a foreign language she doesn’t speak.

“All skinny and bony,” Dean continues, his fingers grazing the skin of Sam’s abdomen just above the open V in the front of his pants. “But still soft around the edges, too, you know? I thought you would kill me, the way you looked at me, Sammy, with the stupid hair and that nose and those dark puppy eyes.”

“Dean –“ Sam forces out, as if he’s choking on the name, and Toni can’t quite tell if it’s Dean’s words that have such an impact on him, or if he’s responding to the palm Dean has just slipped inside his pants.

“And now look at you,” Dean says, in something like wonder, “you are all grown up. All that strength, all those muscles … you could just lift me up and pull me down on that fat cock of yours, couldn’t you.”

Sam groans, throws his head back, jerks his hips up to meet Dean’s hand, and Dean takes advantage of the movement, tilts his wrist, lets Sam’s cock spring free from his pants, and Dean clearly wasn’t lying when he said that Sam was all grown up because _bloody hell_.

“You like that, huh?” Dean says, sounding profoundly pleased with Sam’s reaction. “Like knowing that you can bend me over, hold me down, fuck me hard?”

Sam whines and pushes his hard, thick cock up into Dean’s fist, and Dean takes mercy on him, slides his hand down the shaft, then up again, his other hand curved around the back of Sam’s neck, pulling their foreheads together as they both stare down at Dean’s fingers around his brother’s cock.

“You know I do,” Sam says, his voice hovering somewhere between embarrassed and on the verge of losing his mind with lust.

“Yeah, I know,” Dean rumbles, his hand still jerking Sam, slowly. “And you know I love it, too. But you know what else I like? That you are still, that you will always be my little baby brother, and that you are the kind of twisted fuck who gets off on it.”

“Oh God, Dean – “ Sam stutters, breathlessly, and Toni wonders with a kind of morbid curiosity if he’s about to come, if Dean’s filthy mouth is the thing that’s going to push him over the edge.

But instead he swats at Dean’s hand, makes impatient little noises until Dean releases his grip on Sam’s cock.

“Come on, Dean, you too,” he urges, pleads, his fingers clumsy as he fumbles with the zipper on Dean’s pants. “I need – I need –“

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean agrees, his own hand joining Sam’s to help liberate his erect cock from the confines of his jeans, their fingers bumping, tangling, until finally Dean’s hard cock slides against Sam’s in the narrow space between their bellies, both of them moaning in unison in a way that has Toni briefly close her eyes at the overwhelming, _obscene_ intimacy of it all.

Then she hears Dean say: “Come on, put those big hands to use now,” and she opens her eyes to see Dean holding Sam’s wrist and licking wet, messy stripes across Sam’s right palm before steering his brother’s hand down towards their laps. Sam does as he’s told, wraps his long fingers around their cocks, doesn’t even bother to ease them into it, just starts jerking them both at a hard, steady pace.

Dean’s fingers find their way back into Sam’s hair, teasing, pulling, just hard enough to get Sam to lift his head and look Dean straight in the eye.

“You close, baby?” Dean asks, and Sam exhales and nods, his face tight. Dean _hmms_ softly, puts his own hand over Sam’s fingers around their cocks, joining in on his brother’s ministrations, and leans forward to kiss him briefly, gently, the tenderness of the gesture an odd contrast to the brutal pace of their shared hand job and the sharp stuttering noises of their strained breaths. 

“Come on,” Dean says, voice low. “Give it up for your big brother,” and Sam sobs and tenses, his forehead pressed against Dean’s temple, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down the movements of his wrist until Dean, too, stiffens mere seconds later, and Toni can’t see it from all the way across the room, but she still feels a jolt of heat in her sacrum at the thought of him coming messily all over their joint hands.

All of a sudden, the bunker feels far too quiet, and Toni becomes painfully aware that she is still kneeling in the middle of the doorway, in plain sight, if one of them bothered to raise his eyes. Quickly, she scrambles backwards, lets herself sink against the wall of the corridor, her heart racing, her breath going shallow and fast.

For a moment, she is convinced they must have spotted her crawling awkwardly, still handcuffed and on all fours, must have heard her beat a hasty retreat, but the bunker is still silent, and for a few seconds, the only thing she can hear is the blood rushing in her ears.

“Well,” Dean says finally, remarkably dryly for someone who has just been jerked off by his own brother on the dusty floor of a boiler room in anticipation of certain death. “At least we are going out with a bang.”

Sam laughs quietly. “Was that Butch and Sundance enough for you?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says, and Toni can hear the tenderness in his voice, filtered through what sounds like a hint of wistfulness. “That felt a lot more like Bonnie and Clyde to me.”

“Same difference,” Sam says wryly. “Blaze of glory, right?”

“Yeah,” Dean responds slowly. “Blaze of glory.”

They fall silent again, and Toni tries to guess what they are doing: if they are praying, or crying, or perhaps simply making out again, until suddenly Dean says, in a completely different tone: “Son of a bitch.”

Another pause, an exchange of whispers, and then, Dean again: “Only one way to find out.”

The footsteps give her some warning, and she quickly folds herself into a cross-legged seat, tries her hardest to look as if she’s just been sitting here the whole time, twiddling her thumbs, but she still doesn’t feel ready for the confrontation by the time she hears the sound of heavy boots on the stairs.

Then Dean walks around the corner, and – _oh_. He’s zipped up his pants at least, but he is still shirtless, his bare torso providing ample evidence that the scene she just witnessed was more than a figment of her imagination: the row of reddened half-moon marks on his shoulders, the purple hickey blossoming on his neck, the spatter of coarse hair on his abs that is matted with dried come.

He doesn’t even falter when he sees her. There is no embarrassment in his face, no fear, no shame, just the corner of his mouth tilting upwards in a tiny smirk, as if he knows exactly what she saw and what she’s thinking, and to her horror she finds herself blushing furiously under his impassionate stare.

He walks past her without a word or a second glance, disappearing into the bunker, but she has barely pushed herself up to her feet by the time he returns, now wearing a t-shirt and carrying something that looks suspiciously like a – yes, that’s a grenade launcher, and suddenly her heart is racing again, for entirely different reasons this time, because he can’t possibly think that this will actually work. She trails after him as he heads back to the boiler room, a sinking feeling in her stomach because who is she kidding, he’s a Winchester, _of course_ he would think this will work.

“You are lunatics,” she says incredulously, looking back and forth between the brothers who mere minutes ago were blowing their loads onto each other’s abs and now appear to consider blowing up the building as the next item on their bucket list.

“This is a colossally stupid idea,” she says, her tongue heavy with fear. “The explosion might kill us all.”

“Yep,” Dean grins recklessly, that same triumphant smile he had flashed her in the hallway just moments ago.

“Big and beautiful,” he says, brandishing the weapon, but the broad dopey smile he throws at Sam makes her think that he may not just be talking about the gun. And Sam is smiling back at him, looking so goddamn smitten, and _oh God_ , maybe she should be asking Dean to use the grenade launcher on her and put her out of her misery right now so she doesn’t have to bear witness to their deranged sappiness anymore.

“You are lunatics,” she tries again, helplessly, as Sam grips her forearm to pull her out of the line of fire. This may be her last chance to tell them what she thinks of them.

“Action-movie loving, cheeseburger-eating, _depraved_ American lunatics.”

“Yes,” Dean nods, looking oddly delighted, as if she just paid him the perfect compliment.

“Yes,” Sam echoes from behind her and pulls her flush against his chest. The front of his shirt is damp against her back. He reeks of sweat and sex. They are likely going to die in the next five minutes.

It’s probably an inappropriate moment to feel strangely turned on.

He pushes her up the stairs and around the corner, makes her crouch on the ground, and she presses her arm against his biceps and steels herself for what’s to come.

After a moment, there’s an earth-shattering, deafening bang and the sound of a heavy concrete wall collapsing into itself.

“Dean?” Sam shouts, already on his feet, pulling her up to stand with him.

When they stumble into the boiler room, coughing and gasping, there is a hole in the wall and Dean is nowhere to be seen.

She feels a strange calm descend on her at the sight.

Looks like she might live another day to tell the tale.

Idly, she wonders how much exactly Mary Winchester knows.


End file.
